


Ex Aequabis

by Brilliant_But_Scary_Bad_Wolf



Series: The Remaking [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Natasha Needs a Hug, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Red Room, also bucky really needs to remember, but we'll get to that, clint gives good hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brilliant_But_Scary_Bad_Wolf/pseuds/Brilliant_But_Scary_Bad_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events in DC have torn a hole in Natasha's universe, and sometimes, even the world's second greatest super spy needs to level out.  Clint and vodka help.</p><p>"After all, regimes fall every day.  She never weeps over that, and she won’t now either. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Aequabis

**Author's Note:**

> So I actually wrote this like the week after the movie came out, but I've been holding onto it for a while because I've been developing pretty big plans for some sequels (expect a collection within this universe, as frankly, there was far too much to resolve in just a single oneshot). Point is, the movie killed me, and inspired me, and I knew I had to write something, so this is what came out.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**Level out**

  * _phrasal verb with **level**_


  1. to work on a panel to remove irregularities with the use of hammer and dolly or by filling and sanding, etc
  2. [for something that was going up and down] to assume a more level course or path.
  3. to make or become level. 
  4. To level out is defined as to work on an area to make it even, smooth and free of indents, dents or dings.



 

* * *

 

She leaves Steve in the middle of the graveyard, where he stands with a falcon and a dead man.  She’s not entirely sure where she’s going, but she knows it’s away.  She has to get away.  All of her secrets. All of her secrets are trending on twitter; open to the world.  Well, all of the secrets that SHIELD had known.  Most of them.  And the world knows who she was and who she is; they can see her secrets and her past, see what she has done, and the red on her ledger.  Her covers are all blown.  A spy with no secrets is hardly a spy at all, and it’s all she can do to just keep going; put one foot in front of the other, and act like everything’s okay, when clearly, it’s not. Natasha is a spy. She’s an assassin. She doesn’t know how to be anything else, and yet . . . she can’t be what she was.  She’s certainly no superhero.

It’s obvious of course what her options are.  She knows Stark’s got something in the works, and Steve will almost certainly be involved, but she can’t make a decision now; is too overwhelmed. And despite her newfound notoriety and fame, and her lack of covers, Natasha is a professional. She knows how to go off grid. It’s the only way to level out, and she knows just where to go.

The safehouse in Oslo was certainly not her first safehouse.  Her first safehouse was the only one to remain uncompromised by Clint for a long period of time.  The safehouse in Oslo is, however, the first safehouse that she and Clint had set up together.  It had been a sign of immense trust, on her part, only two years after their partnership had began, to have such a thing.  The Black Widow trusted no one, and had certainly never shared a safehouse before. The fact that she trusts him not to betray it’s location is almost foreign to her, but it’s been many years now, and his only betrayal of her, unwillingly to Loki, had not revealed the location of the Oslo house to anyone.  Why she chose this house, she was not certain.  Certainly it had nothing to do with the fact that it had been here, in this very city, that her entire life had been changed, and even though the SHIELD she knew was a lie, her life had indeed changed, and it _had_ been for the better.  She had done good for SHIELD.  The concept of choice had been introduced into her life, and all thanks to the quick decision of a man not to impale her with an arrow on that night in Oslo.

She certainly doesn’t expect to find him there.  He had been on a mission when it all went down.  Deep cover.  Even if he has managed to surface, and hear of what has happened, she expects he’ll lay low where he is until things settle down.  She’ll go and find him once she gets herself leveled out.  How can she worry about him, or about the rest of the world, when she doesn’t even know what she is anymore?  It’s enough just to consider the consequences of releasing all the intel.  She hasn’t even begun to contemplate the other things; the vulnerabilities revealed to both Steve and Fury, and the problem of the Winter Soldier.  Of Bucky Barnes.  Of . . . she thrusts all these thoughts away.  They will come later, if she allows them.  She cannot allow them now.  She cannot level out with so many things on her mind at once.  The nightmares will be bad enough without these added things.

It’s quite simple to call in a favor and hop on a non-commercial plane that will get her to Oslo.  Apparently, despite her current fame, some old contacts still respect her.  Or fear her.  Or, at least, recognize that they owe her.  Natasha will take what she can get.  She’s on the plane within half an hour of leaving the cemetery, and though the ride is rough- particularly on injuries that have not yet truly had time to heal- it’s not so bad, and the time passes quickly when she tries her very best to keep from thinking.  Or sleeping. She refuses to sleep until she reaches the safehouse.  She gets to Oslo at about three am local time, thanks and pays off the pilot- a favor this might be, but she would not be surprised if the man flying the plane considered outing her travel itinerary- and wastes no time in heading for the house, which is a modest but classy apartment on Storgata.  She’d changed clothes on the flight over, so with the black beanie cap and the inconspicuous clothes, she’s relatively sure no one would recognize her even if it were the light of day.

Still, she’s careful to keep from seeming out of place.  Getting discovered right now, she was sure, would be the absolute worst thing.  Luckily, she makes it to the apartment unscathed.  The key is exactly where they’d put it, and she makes her way inside quickly, only to look up and see down the barrel of a gun.  There’s nothing to do but freeze.

“Natasha?” he says questioningly, as if she has all the answers, and the sound of his voice saying her name is enough to make her feel momentarily happy and relieved despite the handgun, as if all her problems are suddenly solved, and everything’s going to be okay.  The Natalia in her curls up in disgust at that.  How could trusting a man so completely ever be okay?

“Hi,” she finds it in herself to reply, and he’s finally lowering the firearm. The first thing she does then is turn around and lock the door.  Only then does facing him continue to feel safe.  “How much do you know?”

He frowns, and lifts his left hand, offering.  She’s just now noticing the bottle of vodka in it.

 

* * *

 

“Your mission?” she finally gets around to asking when they’re seated at the kitchen table, the vodka being traded off between them.

He shrugs and takes a swig before passing it back to her.  “Completed successfully.  Not that there was anyone to report that to.”

She wants to ask him what he knows; how he found out and why he’s here, but she can’t bring herself to say anything, so they sit in silence for several moments. She takes a big sip from the bottle.

“I” . . . he pauses, “I saw you on the news.”

Natasha nods then.  So he knows a lot. She supposes it’s easier. It’s less for her to tell him, and besides, if the whole world already knows about her, it’s only fair that the person she trusts most knows too.  “I didn’t watch,” she sounds out.  She could have, but the prospect of seeing her face plastered over the tv was terrifying, and she’s not sure how much was shown.  Did they just show the hearing?  Or was there more?  Did some reality tv or news network put together an insight feature on the contents of her life, sharing sordid details with those who had yet to read all the released information?  The thought was terrifying enough to keep her away from televisions.  She’d know soon enough anyways.  She didn’t particularly want to think about it now, and really, her only remaining hope was that details of the red room, many of which she had never disclosed to even SHIELD, had remained secure.  Not that it really mattered.  The fact that she was from the Red Room _had_ been in the files, and surely some conspiracy theorist or historian somewhere would know enough to put it all together.

Either way, her career was over.  The Black Widow and Natasha Romanoff and Natalia Alianovna Romanova were all synonymous now, as were Natalie Rushman, Nadine Roman, and all of her other covers. Every one of them. It would be impossible to land even a freelance job now.

There’s another long silence, and this time, she’s the one who breaks it. “I’m the one who released it all.” A pause.  “It had to be done.”

He’s silent then, but she can feel his eyes on her.  Hers are stuck on the mostly empty bottle of vodka- she’s pretty sure there’s a stronger sort in a cabinet somewhere, so that’ll be next- which she has yet to return to him, though she took the last drink.  Natasha takes another one then, gulping down half of the remaining liquid in one go.  She can feel his frown.

“You regret it?”  His question is half assuming, half genuine, and for several moments, she’s really not sure.

But there was never any question, really.  It was a small cost.  “No,” she pauses, then starts again, more assured, “I saved millions of lives.”

“But,” he presses, and she knows that he knows; knows why she’s so troubled.

She shrugs, and takes another swig before speaking.  “SHIELD’s gone.” 

At the moment, she tries to ignore the fact that SHIELD was really Hydra, and had been since before she’d defected there.  And she’d never known; never even suspected.  Instead she’d been too focused on the opportunity SHIELD had provided, the chance she’d had to make up for her sins, and instead, she’d just been working for a different sort of evil.

Then she speaks again, slowly, “the world is different now.”  It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, but still . . . “I’m not sure I belong anymore.”

It feels strange to say.  After all, regimes fall every day.  She never weeps over that, and she won’t now either.  Natasha looks done at the bottle to see that she’s emptied it, so she starts to move, but Clint’s already on it, knowing exactly what she wants.  Russian made, of course.  She doesn’t miss her homeland, but if there’s one thing she actually likes about it, it’s their alcohol.  He takes the first sip before passing it knowingly to her, and retaking his seat. Watching him watching her, she drinks deeply before bringing the bottle back to rest in her lap.

“I don’t,” she starts, and then stops; can’t do it.  Not yet at least.

She’s not sure what to say then, so it’s a relief that Clint knows her as well as he does: “I like your necklace.”

Her eyes roll of course- he bought it for her, but she smiles then. It’s a small smile, barely visible, but it’s more genuine, more real than any of the smiles she has given recently, and the first since she had taken off her face after leaving Steve in that graveyard. He leaves her then, taking one last drink from the bottle before letting her drink and contemplate in silence, as he knows she wants to do.  After all, she’ll join him in bed later.  And she will, though she’s somewhat concerned about nightmares. Stupid, really. Natasha is often plagued with bad dreams, so while it’s almost certain that she’ll have them when she finally allows herself to sleep tonight, just as she’s had them every night since this disaster had started, she feels as if she ought to be used to them by now, and able to handle them better.  Still, she expects it, so that has to be at least some advantage, she thinks. Unfortunately, when it does come, it’s not the one she expected.

 

* * *

 

_The walls are dark and cold but they’re covered in Red.  Red blood, Red hair, Red stars, Red Room.  She knows the real color of the walls.  She’s painted them, and been painted on them, and the Red is eternal._

_“Harder,” the Winter Soldier says as he backhands her across the face with a hand made of metal. A silly mistake, to let herself be distracted so; to give him such an easy target.  She should have struck him better.  Even at fifteen, Natalia hates making mistakes, so she focuses herself, and retaliates, blinking away the blood dripping into her eye before ducking under his next attack to grab his arm and thrust herself up on top of him, wrapping her legs around his neck.  She’s not quite strong enough yet.  This move works on most men, but Winter is not most men, and he’s certainly nothing but the hardest trainer she’s had.  He tosses her off with ease, as if she weighs nothing at all, and she lands hard several feet away, rolling on the pavement to jump back to her feet despite the pulsing pain from her impact points._

_She runs at him again, and suddenly she’s seventeen and their sparring is of an entirely different sort. He still trains her but he doesn’t command her; they are partners in more than just assassinations. He shoves her against the wall and it’s good and rough because she knows nothing else and it’s still better than everything else, and she chose him.  They’re both loyal but they punish them both nonetheless.  Natalia and Yasha, Soldier and Widow, traitors to their country and in need of punishment, of remaking.  Though they beat her she can hear him screaming.  The walls are accustomed to screams, and yet his echo the loudest. It’s not until they bring out the bullwhip that she notices he’s screaming a word, and it’s not until the Red Room guard has her on her back that she can hear what it is he’s screaming._

_“Natalia!”_

_She struggles._

_“Natalia!”_

_A slap to her face: “We’re very disappointed in you, Natalia.”_

_“Natalia!”_

_“Natalia!”_

_“Natasha!”_

_She thrashes more, desperate._

_“Natasha! Natasha, Tasha wake up. Wake up!”_

It’s experience that keeps Clint safe when she sits up rapidly, one hand pointing a gun and the other lashing out.  She’s breathing hard, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her skin.

“Was I . . .” she starts.  Natasha is usually very good about keeping her nightmares from affecting her outwardly. Her lifestyle demands it.

Clint shakes his head.  “Only a little.”

She frowns and sits up further, her back moving to lean gently against the headboard. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t try to make her say the truth, or tell her it’ll be fine or ask if she’s okay or even ask what she’d dreamt about.  Thankfully, he knows her too well for that.

“You’re bleeding,” is all he says, and she glances down at her shoulder.

The stitches must have torn loose in her sleep, and though the injury’s a few days old now, there’s still some blood trickling out.  She shrugs and tears off her shirt as he goes to grab the medkit from the bathroom.  When he returns, he holds it out to her, giving her the option to treat herself, but she makes no move for it, granting him permission to fix up the wound. Clint sits up on the bed beside her. He moves up on his knees to get closer to the wounded shoulder, and uses tweezers to pull out the remaining stitches. They remain silent as he pours peroxide over the wound and wipes it quickly with her already stained shirt. It hurts.  She remains expressionless nonetheless.  Natasha Romanoff is not so easily bothered by a bullet wound. Her nonchalance retains while he carefully stitches it back up, and she does her very best to keep all thoughts of the Winter Soldier out of her head.  The man doesn’t remember her.  It’s silly to be bothered by this. 

It’s not like she’s even surprised about it, given his long existence, and the fact that he’d known next to nothing about himself when she’d known him. He _had_ remembered her in Odessa, the next time she’d seen him after Red Room had discovered their relationship, but by then, she’d defected, and he’d been brainwashed enough that he’d shot her anyways, uncaring. But this time, his eyes had been blank. He’d tossed her around as if she was fifteen again, and he’d shot her again, but there had been only emptiness to him. At least, there had been until Steve had recognized him.  Steve. Steve would likely be mad if he ever found out that she’d lied to him about when she’d first met Winter, but there were some things she just didn’t want anyone to know. Thankfully, Winter’s Red Room days had not been anywhere in SHIELD’s files, so it seemed no one, not even Winter himself, knew, except for her.

It’s a burden she wishes she did not have.  Natasha almost wishes she could forget like he has.  It would be easier just to forget.  Simpler. But Natasha has already had enough people mess with her mind, and she won’t go that path again. Not by choice. Of course, this means, she has to face that she remembers him; remembers everything that happened between them, while he is still trying to figure out who he is, wherever he his. She hopes for his sake that he never remembers his time in the Red Room.  He would certainly be happier for it.  Clint ties off the stitches, and she’s brought back into the present.

“Thanks,” she says, though she’s not sure what she’s thanking him for.

They stitch each other up all the time.  But still, Natasha knows she’s not in great shape, even if she refuses to admit it, and she knows that Clint knows too, and knows that he’s willing to do whatever she needs right now.  So she gives him something at least.

“I’m not . . . I’m not sure where to go now.  I know where I’m expected to go, and where I should go, and where I told them I’d go, but . . . I’m a spy, not a superhero.  I’d be a terrible superhero.”

He crawls forward on the bed and then turns so he’s leaning against the headboard next to her, though he doesn’t touch her.

“So would I.”

Her expression is doubtful then.  Clint may be like her in many ways, and he may be an assassin, and a spy, but he’s a guy who uses a bow, and he’s one of the best people she knows; he has heart. He would be a great superhero. All she does is raise an eyebrow though; she knows he wouldn’t believe it if she told him, and if she did, he would likely just turn it back on her.  So instead she shrugs, and leans her head back, thinking, and deciding. Clint knows about the Winter Soldier. He knows about him, and while he doesn’t know every detail, he’s the only human alive that she’s ever told about her training with Winter as well as their relationship.  And she knows he knows that Winter was involved. Their battles had been in broad daylight, and in this age of technology, surely it had been caught by at least one person on camera.  So it’s not really much of a decision, if she’s honest with herself.  Still, it’s one she had to make.  He would never force the topic on her, even though he wants to know.

“He didn’t recognize me at all,” she finally gets brave enough to say. “I . . .” she continues hesitantly, “I think he remembered Odessa, but he didn’t know why . . .”

His hand moves between them as an offering, and she takes it, biting her lip, and looking straight ahead at the off-white wall.

“I had no idea he was Steve’s friend.  He was . . . he didn’t even remember his name when I knew him.”

She’s not sure what else to say, so she grows silent then. Clint allows it. They sit in silence for several minutes before she decides to give sleep another chance. It’s way past her normal wake up time, but she’s beyond exhausted, and desperately needs to catch up on sleep. Clint must feel the same, because she feels him curl up behind her just as she drifts off.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t wake again until seven pm Norwegian time, and though she knows there were more nightmares, none of them woke her, and she doesn’t recall what they were about.  Clint is out of bed, so she slips on a pair of shorts, and goes to find him.  She finds him seated on the balcony, eating something he must have bought from a local deli, with another wrapped sandwich sitting beside him, and looking out at the street below.  It’s not much to look at, really.  Just a regular city street in the early evening, with people coming home from work and out to dinner, and the nightlife just starting up. She speaks as she crouches to sit next to him, legs dangling over the edge.

“We’re gonna have to go over all of it.”  Her voice is calm but pointed and efficient.  “Every mission.  We have to check.”

She doesn’t say anymore, but she knows he can figure out the rest. They have to check for Hydra’s involvement.  _She_ has to know how many of her missions were really for them, and not the greater good; how much more red is on her ledger that she didn’t know about.  To his credit, he makes no attempt to dissuade her or tell her it’s pointless.

He simply nods.  “Then we’ll check.”

Natasha takes the sandwich from the ground between them and unwraps it, taking a first bite without bothering to look.  She’d learned long ago not to care what she ate.  People like her ate what they could, when they could, and hoped it would be enough.  They eat in silence for a while, looking out over the quiet street, and Natasha contemplates her next step. There is of course the obvious choice, and she knows that eventually, it’s probably where she’s going to end up, but she’s in no mood to talk to Stark anytime soon, so she’s gonna need some alternatives.  Admittedly, just hiding out here is looking more and more appealing.  There’s plenty of booze, and if she has to have company, Clint’s the one she wants.  Still, she knows, she has to deal with everything that has happened. Natasha’s tried not dealing with such issues previously, and she knows better than to do it again, though she’s still dreading it.  She wonders how Hydra had gotten hold of Winter.  Perhaps the Room had sold him?  Or was it worse. Were they working together?

Clearly, there were things she was going to have to do before she could make any attempt at starting over.  Not that there was any hurry, really, now that they were both unemployed, and the world was not in any urgent need of saving.  She forced herself to relax, and leaned against Clint, taking another bite of her sandwich. He didn’t say anything, so neither did she.  Sometimes silence was far easier to handle than anything else.  She would handle all of her problems tomorrow.  If not, well, the world already had superheroes without her.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings, okay?!?!?!?!? No but really, I enjoyed writing this, and am looking forward to continuing a series, so please, leave me some encouragement so I don't pull a dick move and become too lazy to write the rest!


End file.
